


7790268

by Relicarn



Category: Fallout (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Just a rough drabble I wrote about one of my FO OCs, Please Don't Hurt Me, baby's got a grudge, but hey, it's fallout afterall, some people get shot, this has zero canon characters in it I apologize
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-21 16:19:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12461400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Relicarn/pseuds/Relicarn
Summary: Seven numbers hanging from the wrist of a scarred, worn hunter.





	7790268

**7790268.**

Seven worn numbers, pressed into a small strip of dull metal that dangled from a thin chain around a scarred wrist. The dogtag rattled quietly against the other items on the makeshift bracelet as the hand rose, a finger hovering over the trigger of a rifle. Hushed, slowed breaths left soft wisps of condensation against the cold steel of the weapon as its owner stared down the sights at their target, silhouetted in the gloomy morning light. The world had been holding its breath for a long time, over 200 years, but in that moment it was as though everything had stopped. One final, long exhale was punctuated by the loud crack of the rifle as the sound split through the fog, sending a handful of ever-watchful crows scattering from a nearby tree. The silhouette crumpled to the ground, and, as shouts erupted from nearby, the rifleman pulled his gun up and retreated behind a nearby rock. The stone dug into his back as he reloaded, pausing a moment to light a cigarette and stick it in his mouth before peering back out to observe the group of people now gathering in the valley below him. The mixture of shouts and calls for him to ‘reveal yourself’ that sounded from the group of now only five gave him a feeling that they weren’t sure whether to be angered or spooked at the sudden killing of one of their squad mates. It made a small smirk cross what remained of his scarred lips. He readied his rifle again, another shot downing another man, but not killing them. A quiet noise of annoyance left the shooter’s throat from around the cigarette as he slowly moved positions to fire again from another angle. He didn’t want the squadron to figure out where he was too soon, nor for them to figure out too quickly that their hunter was but one lone figure on the hillside.

It wasn’t until he killed another member that the remaining men panicked to the point where they began to fire almost indiscriminately at the hillside the shooter perched on. Listening carefully from behind his cover, he heard the heavy footsteps of the single man from the squad who was wise enough to wear power armour in the wastes and inwardly cursed. He’d been riding on that individual taking more time to get the armour moving in the cold morning air, but obviously the fusion core that powered it had kicked in a little quicker than he’d hoped. But, never let it be said that it wasn’t prepared. Leaning back, he strained to listen and counted the footfalls carefully, picturing the man’s current position from the sounds. One more footstep and…. The rattling explosion of the mines he’d so carefully placed echoed throughout the valley in a vicious chain reaction. One after another they went off, accompanied by the heavy thud and clanking of the power armour crashing back down the hillside, its occupant unable to survive the carnage the mines wrought. Confident smirk still in place, the shooter looked back out over the hillside, shredded by the mines, great clods of irradiated dirt thrown across the immediate area. The surviving members of the squadron were beginning to understand the gravity of the situation they’d found themselves in, and the two that could began to run, abandoning their injured comrade. The hunter shook his head at their cowardice, but let them run. Firing at them again would only be a waste of bullets. Choosing not to shoulder his rifle just yet, he began to pick his way down the ruined hill to the injured man still in the valley, moving quietly and with a purpose, a predator closing in on wounded prey. The man was certainly making sounds like wounded prey, especially when the hunter got close enough for him to see his radiation scarred face.

“You killed them.” The man squawked as the hunter took a seat on top of the still smoking power armour, taking a long drag of his cigarette as he weighed up the injured soldier.

“And you would have killed me.” The hunter replied, drumming his finger lightly on the armour. “All’s fair.”

“We didn’t even know you were here!”

“So what? How many ghouls have you killed without them knowing you were there until it was too late? And I ain’t just talking about the ferals.”

The man fell silent, and that was answer enough. He seemed to know in that moment that the hunter had been tracking the squadron, had seen, or at least had heard about, the man and his squad mates tearing the ghoul-lead caravan to pieces without batting an eye.

“You know, I was almost considering telling you not to take this personally, but let’s face it, with you Brotherhood types, it’s always personal.” With a final sigh, the hunter, the ghoul, stood. He dropped his cigarette to the ground, and pressed it out under the heel of his boot before raising his rifle again.

One final crack of a rifle sounded through the valley, but there were no more birds around to be startled by it now, no more ears to hear it, the morning’s peaceful silence long since broken.

As he moved to walk away, rifle secured over his back, the ghoul caught his reflection in the armour’s breastplate, caught sight of his cold, black eyes and ruined face, lacking all cartilage from his nose and ears. He grimaced. 200 years, and it never did get any easier to look at his own face. Looking down at his wrist, he ran a thumb over those numbers, and the long since scored out and forgotten letters above them that had once spelt a name. Seven worn numbers, pressed into a small strip of dull metal. His numbers, and above them, what was once his name. Not now, not for a long time, but once. The numbers held more meaning to him now than the letters. Seven numbers, lending him the name he’d had for longer than he’d ever had the one once written above them.

7790268.

_Seven._


End file.
